


Holding Out for a Hero

by Dracoduceus



Series: Words With Benefits [10]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Accountant Hanzo, Animal Transformation, Blue Sentai Hanzo, Green Sentai Genji, M/M, Miscommunication, Secret Identities, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29402673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracoduceus/pseuds/Dracoduceus
Summary: The heroes liked to say that Jesse was a magnet for trouble and though he had never asked for an official ruling, he was pretty sure that he was in the hero clinics more often than anyone else in the city.It's not like hedoanything, really. But he'd go about his life as usual and the villain of the day would zap him and turn him into something weird. Fortunately, the hero clinics were readily available to turn people back. Being there so often, McCree could almost say that he'd struck up a tentative friendship with Blue Sentai and some of the other heroes there.Being changed into different monsters every few days aside, McCree wasn't unhappy with his life. He had a good job, a good boss that looked out for him (even if she was a little shit), and a daily routine that he sincerely enjoyed.That is...until he had to meet up with someone in Accounting to address discrepancies in payroll. Then things got really crazy and he began to see heroes in a new light.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Series: Words With Benefits [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1498223
Comments: 12
Kudos: 102





	Holding Out for a Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt that really got away from me...
> 
> **Prompt:** Jesse lives in a city where villains regularly turn distressed citizens into monsters, and heroes like Hanzo have to turn them back. Jesse is getting frustrated being a regular target and Hanzo's hero life is taking a toll on his regular one. Perhaps they can help each other.

When the brilliant flash of light faded, Jesse McCree looked down at himself and squeezed his eyes shut in resignation. He’d done this so many times that he carried an emergency kit with him. Some of the things needed were damn expensive, but it beat having to go through insurance.

Today it seemed that he had gotten off relatively easy: he was just a satyr, still relatively him-sized, even if his pants no longer fit properly. It certainly could be worse—just last week he had been turned into a Gorgon. Worse, he had been hit  _ twice _ ; so not only had he been a Gorgon that required special glasses to keep from turning people from stone, he had also been turned into a Naga, so he had lost the use of his legs. 

He wasn’t proud to say that he hadn’t turned anyone into stone because that would mean admitting that he had more than his fair share of practice in keeping his eyes closed until he could find the special glasses that would prevent such a thing. Not to mention, he had been fined once by the township for something that he couldn’t control. A single, ludicrous payment of $800 from a reputable dealer of such items was better than paying $2,000  _ per person _ that he accidentally turned (temporarily) to stone. 

Carefully keeping his pants on with one hand, he bent to pick up his shoes with the other. When he sighed, it came out as a frustrated bleat. McCree put his shoes away in his cubby, messaged his supervisor, and walked around the corner to the hero clinic.

As always, there was panic in the waiting room. Once upon a time, he had been one of them. There were two Gorgons with blindfolds on, a Minotaur whose long horns had already ruined the ceiling tiles, and a Naga that had somehow tied themselves in a knot.

“Oh, bless,” the tiny girl behind the counter said. “Back again are we, Jesse?”

He bleated plaintively before clearing his throat and making his way across the slippery tile floors toward her. “I swe-e-a-a-r they have it out for me.”

Lena clicked her tongue sympathetically and graciously didn’t react to the fact that he had started bleating mid-word. “It’s alright,” she said. “We’ll get you sorted right quick. Go and have a seat, love.”

“Thank you,” McCree said and hobbled to a free chair away from everyone else. It took some looking, but he was able to find the book he had started the last time he had been there and found the little bookmark he had hidden away in the pages.

Distantly, he could hear the heroes calling each patient over and leading them away into a separate room. He knew from experience that they would be released back to the main street through another set of hidden hallways.

His ears perked up too-eagerly when he heard his name called. Forcing himself to act casual, he replaced the bookmark and carefully got to his hooves. He slipped and strong arms caught him; he pretended to swoon. “Why, Blue Sentai!”

The hero chuckled, though it sounded more like a pained grunt. Green Sentai often complained that Blue sounded like he had a stick up his ass; McCree often thought that Green didn’t understand the subtleties of Blue’s wide range of grunts and grumbles. It was a language all on its own and McCree was often embarrassed that he had become nearly fluent in them.

“Have I swept you off your feet again?” Blue asked in that dry way of his. “Let’s get your feet under you—no, Jesse, I will  _ not _ carry you—and get you out back.”

McCree bleated before he could stop himself and nearly dropped his pants but Blue was patient, holding him steady until he could stand on his own. “Taking me out back, eh? Can’t tell if it’s to shoot me or fuck me.”

It had taken a long time to reach this level of joking with Blue, but he was rewarded with another of Blue’s grunt-laughs. “Yeah, I’ll be shooting you, alright,” he muttered, too low for Lena to hear, and grunted again when McCree brayed with laughter.

In the exam room, Blue helped McCree to the short berth and consulted the view screen. “I’m surprised to see you here again.”

“Is that your way of saying that we gotta stop meeting like this?” McCree teased.

Blue grunted and absently patted his arm reassuringly. “What were you doing this time?”

“Would you believe it when I said that I wasn’t doing anything?” McCree asked sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. Despite the mask covering his entire face, Blue Sentai was surprisingly expressive in his disbelief. “No, I promise! I was minding my own business when  _ bam! _ ” 

Shaking his head, Blue reached for the scanner gun, which really looked like a fancier version of the metal-detecting wands that bored security guards used to scan people at events. Though the common story was that the heroes at the clinic all either came from advanced, forgotten civilizations or literally from outer space, McCree was very sure that none of that was true. He had the feeling that Blue was just a regular human beneath all of that armor. 

“Ah, I see,” Blue said as he waved the wand over McCree. “It says here that you’re a magnet for trouble.” 

McCree brayed with laughter, unable to help himself. “Oh no!” he said with mock sincerity. “However can I fix it, doc?”

“I am not a doctor,” Blue told him in that dry way of his. “But I can take a look.”

Again, McCree brayed with laughter as Blue put away the scanner and turned back around, crossing his arms over his armored chest. “By all means, Mr. Blue Sentai  _ sir _ .” He batted his eyes at the hero who gave another grunt-laugh.

Then Blue’s hands, glowing an eye-burning shade of cyan, touched his chest. McCree jerked as if shocked and when the harsh light cleared from his eyes, he was human again and Blue Sentai looked far too innocent. 

“You bastard,” McCree said without heat. 

Blue chuckled. “I assure you, my parents were married.” 

Laughing, McCree carefully adjusted his clothes to fit his restored figure. 

* * *

As always, Blue sent him off with a  _ look _ that both promised trouble while telling him out loud to stay  _ out _ of trouble. McCree thanked him with two middle fingers and a wink. Though he had never seen Blue’s expression, he thought that he was amused, maybe even smiling; perhaps that was just wishful thinking. 

His supervisor, Sombra, teased him for getting hit  _ again _ and informed him that Reyes had been the one to win the overall pool, because of course he was. With that sinister grin of hers, she heaped the rest of his work on him and added a few more reports that needed to be run to Accounting. 

“Since you spent an hour away,” Sombra said with a wink. “I need you to stay an hour later. That cute guy in Accounting comes in just after you usually leave and he’ll need these reports.” 

McCree’s brows rose. “‘That cute guy’?” he echoed. “Pretty sure you’re as gay as they come, Som.” 

She waved her hand dismissively at him. While he was  _ pretty _ sure they had been violet earlier that day, now they were bright red like fire. “Yeah, but I have  _ eyes _ .” 

Shaking his head, McCree waved her off and got back to work. “If that’s all…”

“Nope,” Sombra told him, leaning against the wall of his cubicle. “You need to stay with him, too.” When he gave her an incredulous look, she grinned at him. “Oh, don’t look so scared. I’m sure that if you ask nicely, he’ll bite.” 

“Not how the phrase goes,” McCree told her tiredly. “ _ Why _ do I have to stay with him?” 

Sombra winked. “Because I said so. And…” she tapped the neat pile of reports. “You guys need to go over time cards. Something’s not right with the system so you’ll both have to double-check.” 

With another laugh at his expression, Sombra left. “You know, it’s a good thing that I don’t have anything to do after work!”

Still. The after-hours work would be nice. Som was really good about making sure that her people were paid. He’d get his hazard pay for the time he needed to take to visit the hero clinic (a law unique to the city), and then he’d get that hour of overtime pay to cover what Sombra asked him to do. 

Small miracles. 

But then, that meant that he’d be just late enough to beat the dinner rush at that fancy ramen place he passed on the way home. With the promise of extra pay  _ and _ good ramen, McCree smiled and got to work. 

* * *

For some reason, Accounting was located in the sub-basement of the building. According to office lore, there used to be old WWII bunkers down there and forgotten hidey-holes lost to time. More realistically, it was unlikely that there were any such things: In the past decade or so, when supervillains began terrorizing the city, a lot of buildings had been rebuilt. 

Despite knowing this, it still felt like he was walking backwards in time with every step he took down into the basement. The knowledge that he was walking into the basement meant that despite the well-kept fluorescent lights and the clean walls and floors, it  _ felt _ as if he was walking into the dim basement of a horror movie. 

He saw a few of the accountants and financial analysts lingering around the elevator and waved to those that looked curiously at him, ducking out of the way as soon as he could to prevent any small talk. 

Consulting the sticky note that Sombra had put on top of her stupid reports, McCree followed the plain black and white directional arrows until he came up to a very nondescript office with a title card that was more easily translated to “Boring Accountant Work”.

The light was off and no one answered when he hesitantly rapped his knuckles against the door. “Of course,” he muttered to himself and checked his watch. He thought that he’d be late, but it seemed that whoever this person was hadn’t even showed up. Then again, it wasn’t uncommon for commuters to decide not to come in when a villain attacked.

“Can I help you?”

Whirling, McCree found an exceptionally tired-looking man with a rumpled shirt and a bulging laptop bag hanging from one big shoulder. There were bags under his eyes that were not-quite hidden by concealer and his ponytail was crooked, as if he had pulled it up in a hurry.

McCree hesitantly lifted the reports. “Som told me to go over some of these… uh… payroll reports? With you?”

A strange look crossed the man’s face. “Of course she did,” he muttered to himself and fished out a lanyard of keys that would put any janitor to shame. “Don’t ask,” he advised McCree tiredly. “I’m not awake enough to come up with an interesting lie.”

McCree chuckled. “How about I let you take a look at these before we go over them?” he suggested. “And I’ll run to the cafeteria and grab you some coffee?”

The man dug around in the bulging pockets of his over-full laptop bag and pulled out his ID tag (which said that his name was Shimada, Hanzo and had a more decorous picture than the tired incarnation in front of McCree) and a crumpled $20 bill. “Can you go to the Starbucks instead?” he asked, as if it wasn’t just around the corner. “Ask Mei for my usual?”

That explained why he handed his ID to McCree. He saluted Shimada with two fingers and exchanged the pile of reports for the tag and bill. “Be right back. Don’t go falling asleep on me, now.”

Shimada gave him a weak chuckle. “No promises,” he said with surprising candor. As he walked away, he could hear Shimada mutter to himself, “What does Olivia want?” He wondered what kind of relationship that Shimada had with Som. No one—except for Shimada, apparently—called Sombra by her real name.

But that was none of his business. He walked quickly to the little Starbucks kiosk and found a tall, pink-haired woman behind the counter. “Hey Zarya,” he said. “Is Mei here?”

“She will be late,” Zarya told him. “What can I get you?”

“Actually, it’s for…” McCree consulted the ID. “Shimada Hanzo. He wants his usual. I don’t suppose you know what that is?”

Zarya snorted. “Man drinks too much coffee,” she said but in lieu of answering him directly, she turned and began fiddling with the various bottles and equipment behind the counter. “I do not know how his heart has not given out already,” she added. “Or how he does not have diabetes.”

He watched her select a pastry from the display and throw it in the toaster oven to warm up. Personally, he liked his coffee black but apparently Shimada was the kind that liked pumps of flavor and sugar and fancy milk foam.

She set everything down on the counter and grunted when McCree handed her the crumpled bill. “Tell him that he needs to get out more,” she said as she gave him the change.

Saluting her, McCree walked back to Shimada’s office, hot pastry and coffee in hand, and found that Shimada had put on a pair of reading glasses that were perched low on his nose as he read through the stack of reports that McCree had given him. A chunk of something stuck out of his mouth and seeing the open bag on his desk, McCree realized that it was a piece of jerky.

While he was gone, Shimada had apparently cleared off a chair; looking around, McCree could see a pile of folders and thick binders full of paper stacked to the side, their imprint still marking the now-empty chair in front of Shimada’s desk.

Shimada looked up at him. “Sit,” he said and gestured to the chair. “Thank you for getting this for me.”

“No problem,” McCree assured him. “It’s later than I typically stay, but I get my overtime pay, so…”

Shimada chuckled as he accepted his change back and drank deeply from the coffee as if he couldn’t feel the heat. When he finished, probably chugging most of, if not the whole damn thing, he sighed. “Sorry,” he told McCree. “Long day. You know how it is.”

“Is this your second job?” McCree asked sympathetically.

Shimada chuckled tiredly. “Volunteer work of sorts,” he said and McCree winced. “Volunteer work” was an official-unofficial pastime in the city. It took a lot of work to get everything back into shape after a supervillain attack, after all. McCree had his own feelings about unpaid “volunteer work”, but he still did his part to help out.

“I assist in some of the hero clinics,” Shimada added.

“I haven’t seen you,” McCree said. “I’m there far too often for my liking.”

Shimada chuckled, the sound coming from somewhere deep in his big chest. “I’m usually in the back,” he said vaguely. “So, Olivia said that you need to discuss something with me?” He held up the sticky note, pressed between his fore and middle fingers.

Sighing, McCree scrubbed a hand down his face. “Where to begin?”

Shimada made a face and pulled out a note pad. “I see how it is.”

“Yeah.”

Shaking his head, Shimada pulled out a pen that McCree recognized from the hero clinic. “Alright,” he said. “Let us start from your first involvement here.”

* * *

Sombra had estimated that it would take them an hour, but Shimada was disturbingly thorough. He had a wicked sense of humor too, dry and sarcastic in a way that had McCree in stitches. Even though they went over the predicted hour, McCree had no complaints. Working with Shimada was refreshing in a way that he hadn’t expected.

They poured over the reports for an hour before calling for a break. McCree ran to the cafeteria to get them a quick dinner while Shimada made copies of the reports for them to review again as they ate. It was during that time, discussing line items around mouthfuls of unseasoned, cardboard-flavored cafeteria food, that they found what were causing the discrepancies.

Fork held between his teeth, Shimada typed away at his computer and McCree crowded close behind him, boxed in by piles of reports and binders. “There it is,” Shimada whispered. “This isn’t good.” He turned to look at McCree and they both realized how close they were standing, how McCree was curled over Shimada’s shoulder. His fork poked the corner of McCree’s mouth.

“Hanzo, I—” They both looked guiltily at the door and found a woman standing there, a stack of paper in her hands. She stood, frozen, watching them with a calculating look in her dark eyes.

Shimada cleared his throat. “Satya,” he said, pulling the fork out of his mouth. He chewed the food in his mouth, swallowed, and cleared his throat. “Satya,” he said again. “How can I help you?”

The woman, apparently called Satya, looked back and forth between McCree and Shimada. Evidently, she decided that whatever she had stumbled upon wasn’t interesting enough because she lifted the stack of paper in her hands. “I found some discrepancies that I think you should take a look at.”

“We were doing something similar,” Shimada agreed. “Jesse brought down a report from Olivia; they are having payroll issues up there.”

Satya took McCree’s vacated seat and consulted the paperwork in her hands. “I don’t have those reports,” she said, sounding disgruntled. “But I found some inconsistencies in Akande’s division, as well as Moira’s.”

A strange look passed between Satya and Shimada. “If Olivia, Akande,  _ and _ Moira are all having these issues, then it stands to reason that Maximilien would as well,” Shimada said slowly. He glanced at the clock on his wall and grunted. The sound reminded McCree of Blue Sentai’s “why do  _ I _ have to do all the work” grunt, usually used when Green pushed his work on Blue. “Jesse, it is late for you. I appreciate you staying this late to go over these reports, but I would hate to keep you.”

McCree craned his head to look at the time in the lower corner of Shimada’s screen and whistled. “Shit, I didn’t realize it was so late.”

Shimada gave another grunt-laugh that sounded like Blue’s. “You should go,” he said kindly. “Not that I am not more than happy to have you stay—you were vital in finding this issue—but I would hate to interrupt whatever personal time you have left today.”

Scrubbing a hand down his face, McCree sighed. “I want to stay,” he admitted. “But I gotta say, I’m beat. Here.” He boldly reached on Shimada’s desk for a pen and a sticky note, scribbling down his name and number. “If you need me, give me a quick call, shoot me a text. If you need another report, I can get it to you during normal-people hours.” Shimada chuckled, the sound again coming from somewhere deep in his big chest.

“Also…” he jumped, somehow already forgetting about Satya sitting in his vacated seat. She sat primly in the chair, her legs crossed and her hands folded prettily in her lap. “I would caution against telling anyone about this. This information is…”

He shook his head. “I gotta tell Som something tomorrow when she asks,” he pointed out. “But I will be careful about it. You’re right—there’s something fishy going on here, and I’d hate to let anyone know that people are looking too much into it.”

“Tell her that there is a minor coding issue in the way that time cards are processed,” Shimada suggested. “She knows that I have access to that software, so I can troubleshoot the way it is processed—it is true enough.”

McCree shot him a finger-gun and was rewarded with a slight tick of a smile at the corner of Shimada’s mouth. “Was plannin’ on it; or something like it. Great minds think alike huh, Shimada?”

He packed up the rest of his food and his stuff. “I’ll see y’all later,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat first at Shimada, then Satya. “Shimada. Satya.”

They both murmured their goodbyes as he ducked into the hallway and walked quickly back to his office to get the rest of his stuff. As he walked out the front door toward the parking garage, he received a text from an unknown number:  _ Be careful. Drive safely. -Hanzo _ .

Smiling, McCree packed away his bag, pulled on his helmet, and mounted his bike.

* * *

“Shimada told me about it,” Sombra said after she summoned him to her office. “So don’t worry about making a report. The soothsayers on the news say that there might be another attack today, so I’m almost inclined to send you back to Accounting. Just in case.”

McCree snorted. “Since when are there soothsayers on the news?”

“Always,” Sombra said. There was a strangely serious look on her face that sent chills down McCree’s spine. “Pay attention.”

Sighing, McCree slumped in the chair and scrubbed a hand down his face. “This isn’t my thing, Som,” he said. “This was—”

“I know,” Sombra said almost sympathetically. “But you’re here and we need you. Unfortunately, I can’t spare you in Accounting during normal hours.” McCree made a face and she laughed as if her expression wasn’t so intensely out of character for her. “So go to your normal desk, get hit by something, and go about your day as usual. Either way, I need you to take another stack of docs to that accountant. He has more bugs that he needs to fix.”

“An accountant with coding experience?” McCree teased, groaning as he got to his feet.

Sombra chuckled and this time it reached her eyes. “You’d be surprised.”

* * *

Sombra’s prediction of a villain attack came true. Despite being in the interior of the building, McCree could hear the sound of engines and explosions. At least one of the Sentais were involved, because he could hear the roar of their “magic” dragons.

The kitchen had no windows to look out, so McCree was quite surprised to be hit with a blast of magic. When the dazzles from his eyes cleared, he realized that his long horns had punctured the drop ceiling, showering a very unamused Moira with dust.

“Again?” she asked archly, raising a single ginger brow disdainfully. She looked down at the dust floating in her coffee and made a disgusted sound as she poured it out. “Leave before you ruin anything else,” she said.

Snorting, McCree ducked his head and carefully maneuvered himself out the door. At least his pants didn’t rip, but it was a near thing.

“Told you so,” Sombra said as he made his way to his desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Reyes accept a folded bill from Sombra as she passed his cubicle. “You know the drill.”

McCree snorted again, packed his bag, and carefully made his way to the hero clinic.

* * *

Green Sentai came to collect him from the waiting room, and McCree tried not to be disappointed. While he didn’t (exactly) have a crush on Blue, he found him to be more… entertaining than Green. He was less overstimulating and not as loud as Green, and after his time with Shimada he realized that he may just have a thing for dry, sarcastic guys.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” Green said, with a hint of a mechanical laugh to his voice. “Have you been avoiding me?”

McCree snorted. “Luck of the draw,” he muttered. “I’ve just been getting Zenyatta. Or Blue.”

“ _ Ah _ ,” Green said dismissively. “Blue isn’t as good as  _ I _ am.”

Rumor was that Green and Blue were brothers—that explained why they, of everyone else on the hero roster, stuck to a theme. From what he’d seen of the two interacting, he could definitely see it. Green, at least, had all the spunk and competitiveness of a younger brother.

He let Green continue talking, gesturing wildly as he carefully made his walk down the halls to one of the back rooms. Suddenly, Green stopped. “Actually,” he said. “Let’s go here.” He rapped his knuckles on the nearest door and without waiting for a response, opened it.

There was a crash and the flutter of papers, and when McCree could see into the room, he found Blue Sentai attaching his mask as papers covered the ground—the crash had been Blue lunging for his mask, which had knocked down the piles of paper on the table nearby.

“Green Sentai!” Blue scolded. Green laughed and McCree decided that yes, they absolutely  _ had _ to be brothers, maybe cousins.

“Take care of him, will you?” Green said. “I think I saw Zen.” Shoving McCree into the room—and making his horns knock painfully against the door frame—Green disappeared down the hall.

McCree cleared his throat, rubbing his skull where his horns were connected to his head. While apparently, he didn’t have any feeling in the horns themselves, the knock against the frame still  _ hurt _ . “So… I can go back to the waiting room if you’re busy.”

Blue huffed, finishing the last clasp of his mask. “It’s fine, Jesse,” he said dryly. “Just… give me a moment.”

“Here,” McCree said, closing the door behind him. “Let me help you with that.”

When he turned back around, he found that Blue had picked up almost all of the papers and was shoving them haphazardly into a nearby drawer as if trying to hide their contents. He cleared his throat and politely looked away until one paper—with a yellow sticky note attached—fluttered to the ground at his feet.

Hooves.

Whatever.

As he bent to pick it up, he realized that he recognized the handwriting.

He also recognized the note, and the pen that wrote it. It was the same note that Sombra had put on the stack of papers to deliver to Shimada in Accounting—and the paper was filled with notes of errors and inconsistencies.

Slowly, he looked back at Blue who was frozen in his seat. Despite wearing a full mask, he almost seemed terrified.

Clearing his throat, McCree handed the paper to Blue. “Sorry,” he said. “Here you go…  _ Blue _ .”

For a long moment, Blue stared at him. Then he sighed, his shoulders slumping. It took a moment to undo all of the latches, and then he was pulling off his mask. “Well,” he said awkwardly. “That could have gone better.”

“You didn’t have to,” McCree protested weakly.

Shimada shook his head. “It is only fair,” he said. “Either way, you would know my secret. I should at least do you the courtesy of acknowledge it.” He gestured at the medical berth as he carefully pulled the papers out of the drawer again. A few were bent and Shimada spent a moment absently petting them flat before turning around again.

“So this is your ‘volunteer work’?” McCree asked, grasping at something to fill their awkward silence.

Shaking his head, Blue gave another of his grunt-laughs. “Yes,” he said dryly. “This is my ‘volunteer work’. And you can imagine why I am so tired all the time.”

“How do you do it?” McCree asked wonderingly. “Being a hero, doing this,  _ and then _ working?  _ Why _ ? Do they not pay you enough here?”

Blue snorted and pulled out the scanning wand, slowly running it over McCree’s body. “I like it,” he admitted. “Before…  _ this _ —” he gestured with his free hand to his blue and gold armor. “—I went to business school. It is what I enjoy doing.”

McCree flinched. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not be,” Shimada said almost gently. “You would not have known.” He put aside the scanning wand and when he turned around, his hands were glowing bright cyan. “Close your eyes,” he said with a smirk wicked enough to rival Sombra’s.

Laughing, McCree obeyed.

* * *

He wouldn’t be surprised if Sombra knew that something was up, but he was careful to not say anything about what happened at the clinic. When people asked, he told them truthfully that Green Sentai had taken him to change him back, but omitted that it had actually been Blue that had helped him. He steered the conversation back into what it was like to be a Minotaur and tried not to linger on the thought that not only did Blue Sentai have a day job, but  _ they worked in the same place _ .

What are the odds?

At the same time, he was a little suspicious. Perhaps he was just jumping at shadows, but the thought that a hero like Blue being in a company that was conducting an internal investigation into… what, embezzlement? Tax fraud? He didn’t know, but he knew that it was big.

Then again, McCree didn’t think that tax fraud was so urgent that someone might send a hero like Blue Sentai undercover in the accounting department. Still, it seemed just too convenient that he just  _ happened _ to be there.

Just as he was secretly hoping—and just as she had implied earlier—Sombra came by with another packet of reports to take to Shimada in accounting. This time he was prepared for Shimada to show up late, and was waiting outside with his usual order from the Starbucks kiosk.

“I could almost kiss you,” Shimada said with feeling as he unlocked the door to his office. Then he turned around with such a stricken look on his face that McCree almost had to laugh. “I mean—”

“Don’t worry,” McCree assured him. “I won’t hold you to it. Here.” He handed Shimada the coffee and put the pastry bag on a clear spot on his desk. “Drink up, and we can go over whatever else Som has for us.”

With a grateful sigh, Shimada tipped his head back and gulped quickly from the cardboard cup. It gave McCree the perfect view of his thick throat bobbing and he looked away. Even more so, he couldn’t possibly act on any sort of lustful feelings he may feel. The man was fucking  _ gorgeous _ , but not only was he a coworker (albeit one in a different department), he was also a  _ hero _ .

And heroes like Blue Sentai didn’t look like nobodies like McCree.

Still. He always knew that he liked Blue Sentai—and he liked his human alter-ego, though he supposed that they really were the same person, or at least two sides of the same damn coin. Just knowing them was enough for McCree.

When Shimada stopped chugging his coffee, he looked down and smiled at McCree. “Shall we?” 

* * *

They were just hitting their stride in their review when Shimada’s phone went off. He gave McCree such a guilty look that he realized that it wasn’t  _ just _ a call.

“Hey,” he said loudly, pulling his sleeve back to look at a watch he wasn’t wearing. “Wow, look at the time. Guess I better go, Shimada.”

The grateful expression on Shimada’s face made his heart do flips.  _ Oh no _ .

“It seems that I owe you again,” Shimada said, stacking his papers and tucking them into his over-full laptop bag.

McCree forced himself to smile. “You get dinner next time? I’m sure we’ll have to meet up again soon.”

Just as he was realizing exactly what that sounded like, Shimada smiled. “It’s a date.”

“I’ll text you later,” McCree told him, trying not to look too much into those unintended words as he backed out of Shimada’s office. “I’ll review some of this at home and later during the day tomorrow.”

“‘Normal people hours’,” Shimada teased. Laughing, McCree walked quickly down the quiet halls.

Later that night, Shimada answered McCree’s long string of paperwork updates with a simple,  _ someone was a busy boy _ .

McCree, who had shamelessly turned on the news to see what was going on with the heroes, watched a recording of Blue Sentai bouncing off a wall and winced.  _ You’re one to talk, Mr. Late Night Shift _ .

_ I have normal work hours _ , Shimada replied, and McCree reasoned that if he was responding—legibly—then he must not be  _ too _ injured. He hoped. But he knew that he could never ask Shimada that.  _ They’re just not the same as yours _ .

He smiled.  _ And what was your excuse? _ He asked.  _ Were you asleep at your desk without Starbucks? _

_ Rude _ , Shimada replied and was quiet for a long time. When McCree woke up the next morning, he found that Shimada had texted him again.  _ Dinner tonight. My treat. Lets pound this out _ . There was a pause of about an hour, and then another message:  _ that didn’t come out right. _

Laughing, McCree got out of bed and shuffled into his kitchen to make coffee.

* * *

Sombra’s alleged “news soothsayers” didn’t call for any attacks, so McCree had no  _ real _ reason to go down to Accounting after work. At least, not one that any of them were talking about out in any way that it could be overheard.

So he was surprised that, at the end of the day, Sombra knocked on the top of his cubicle to get his attention. There was another packet of papers in her hand, and a large manila envelope. “I usually take my reports down to Satya in Accounting at the end of the week,” she said. McCree remembered the name but it took a moment for him to place it: it was the woman that had walked in the first time he had met Shimada. “Be a dear and take these to her before you leave.”

Normally he’d protest, but he had been grasping at straws to have an excuse to go down to Accounting. Still, he had to keep up appearances.

“Som,” he complained. “This is the first time this week that I haven’t had to run to the hero clinic—”

“Not my problem,” Sombra told him with a teasing quirk to her lips. “Go on, now.”

After making a show of grumbling, McCree threw his jacket over his arm, tucked the papers to his chest, and made his way to the stairs. This time, as he was passing the elevators, he ran into Shimada, who was—for once—on time.

He was also carrying four huge bags of food and gave McCree a sheepish smile when he saw him. “It would be rude to not bring anything for Satya,” he said.

“It’s fine,” McCree said, though he wondered how three people could eat that much. “I’m here to deliver these to Satya anyway.”

Tilting his head, Shimada led him down a different hall and nodded at the door labeled  _ Vaswani, Satya _ . Carefully opening the door, McCree found that there were more people inside than he had anticipated could fit in such a tiny space.

To his frustration, he found Sombra there, perched on the arm of Satya’s chair. Mei and Zarya were also there, the former giving him a sheepish wave as if embarrassed. More surprising were the other guests he saw: Lena from the hero clinic, the omnic monk Zenyatta, and the vigilante called Oni, who wore midnight blue with a bright green sash and wore a startlingly pale mask of a grinning, tusked demon over his face.

“Don’t just stand there,” Sombra advised. “Get in and close the door. We’re all starving!”

Blinking, McCree obeyed and watched Shimada close and lock the door behind them. As McCree watched, Satya lifted two hands and pinched a glowing blue shape that formed between them; when she spread her hands, a glittering blue barrier spread to cover the walls, floor, and ceiling of the room.

“Do not spill anything anywhere,” Satya warned as Shimada passed out the bags.

Sombra stuck her tongue out at Satya as she wiggled open the knot in the plastic bag and began pulling out the stacked Styrofoam takeout boxes of food, labeled with names in black marker. “Oni. Satya. Jesse.”

Still surprised, McCree numbly took the box and followed Shimada’s gentle tugging to a pair of chairs. Oni slipped his mask up, just enough to reveal a scarred mouth, and began eating.

“Sorry to spring this on you,” Shimada said, sounding sincerely upset. “But we couldn’t…”

“Secrecy was of the utmost importance,” Satya said when Shimada trailed off.

McCree made a face and opened his takeout box, even though his stomach was churning nervously. From the smell, it was from the barbecue place down the street, a place that he hadn’t been able to visit yet, but who Sombra swore made the best tacos she’d ever had.

Shimada nudged him gently with his elbow. “I still owe you,” he said quietly while Oni, who sat nearby, snorted. The corner of his scarred mouth ticked upward in a smirk—lopsided as much from scarring as humor—as Shimada cast him a dirty look.

“I just don’t know why  _ I’m _ here,” he said quietly, though he was under no illusion that nobody else could hear them.

Lena chuckled. “Because you’re the one that Blue here trusts,” she said. “ _ And _ you’re the one that helped him to find the discrepancies. You have as much right— _ more _ , really—to be here as anyone else.”

Lost, McCree looked at Sombra, who winked at him. “Without your work last night and over the past few days, we would not have been able to answer some of the questions that have eluded us,” Shimada added, and McCree turned to look at him. “Not to mention that, by giving you this project, Olivia painted a large target on your back.”

“Hey,” Sombra complained. “It’s  _ both _ of our backs, thanks.” She lobbed the last box at Shimada, who caught it without looking away from McCree.

Fucking  _ heroes _ , man.

There was a strangely electric look in Shimada’s eyes, and McCree couldn’t look away. “Even if you want nothing more to do with us—”  _ with me _ , McCree read in his eyes. “—you are still an accessory, and we have every right to fear retaliation.”

“What kind of heroes would we be if we cannot protect our citizens?” Zarya asked in her booming voice. Evidently, whatever glowing thing that Satya had done also stopped people outside the room from overhearing, because there was no reaction to Zarya’s volume.

When Shimada was looking at him like that, as if afraid that  _ he _ would be the one to lose McCree, he knew that he was too far gone to turn this down. “Alright,” he said at last and oh, he  _ really _ had it bad because Shimada’s smile was brighter than the sun after a week of rain. “I noticed a few other things, too.”

“Eat first,” Sombra advised with a wicked grin. Then she gave a very unsubtle wink. “This will take a while. You’ll need your energy.”

* * *

“Will you be okay?” Mei asked out of the passenger side window. McCree’s mind spun to realize that she—and Zarya—were heroes too. He had seen them both every day in the kitchen, in the hallway and didn’t realize that they were the heroes Cyberian and Abominable. Admittedly, they weren’t that common in this area—for the most part, they only were called out during times of great crisis or during the winter.

And, apparently, during undercover work. 

“You’d be surprised,” Zarya— _ Cyberian _ —had said dryly when he had shyly expressed such surprise. “There are Starbucks everywhere.” 

“I’ll be fine,” McCree assured them, waving past Mei to Zarya who nodded once at him.

Oni had disappeared after sharing a brief conversation with Shimada, who didn’t look happy. Satya (who had turned out to be a civilian consultant) had remained behind as she still had work to do, even so late at night, and Lena had left, walking back to her apartment near the hero clinic.

Som had fucked off to god-knows-where, and cast a wink and a meaningful glance at McCree before she disappeared. Sometimes he really hated that woman.

With Zarya and Mei’s surprisingly nondescript car gone, it was just Shimada and McCree left. After dark, the garage was lit by the ugly golden lights tucked into dirty concrete alcoves, which had always made McCree feel as if he was trapped in a horror movie. He always hated staying late, if only because of those lights; even though he logically knew that the parking garage was incredibly safe, it always gave him goosebumps to walk down the silent aisles to his hovercycle.

This time, though, he was with Shimada—a  _ hero _ . This was the safest he could possibly be.

Shimada was giving him a look as they both stood there near the elevators. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.

“What about you?” McCree asked as he began walking to the bike racks.

Shimada shrugged. “I walked here from the clinic. And…” he cleared his throat. “Green took the car. He has a date.”

As they walked, McCree cast a glance at Shimada out of the corner of his eye. “Okay,” he said. “Um…I know how this will sound but…I can give you a ride? If you need one? Somewhere that is not necessarily your house or wherever you live? Or at least somewhere close enough to reasonably walk.”

In the dim golden light of the parking garage, Shimada’s eyes were dark. “It would be improper,” he hedged, but didn’t seem too opposed.

“I drive a hovercycle,” McCree added. “I don’t know if that’s a deal breaker…”

And then he remembered that Blue Sentai also rode a hovercycle, when he wasn’t climbing and flipping around like a fucking ninja. Shimada seemed to read that recognition in his face because he chuckled.

“I am not opposed to hovercycles,” he said, his voice low and throaty and oh, that  _ did things _ to McCree that he hoped Shimada wouldn’t notice. “But I suppose that…yes. I will take you up on that offer.”

McCree realized just how fucked he was when he reached his hovercycle. Shimada clearly knew his vehicles because he cast a few appreciative glances at the hovercycle before looking back up at McCree with those dark eyes.

“Here,” McCree said belatedly, opening the storage compartment. “I have an extra helmet here, and I’m sure you can fit your bag…probably…”

Shimada chuckled and slipped on the helmet, flipping up the visor when it was settled. “Don’t worry about the bag,” he said and McCree belatedly realized that it was gone, was no longer slung around his big shoulders and wasn’t in the storage compartment that McCree had opened. Shimada winked and McCree knew better than to ask so he didn’t and mounted the bike.

A moment later, his breath hitched when he felt Shimada climb up behind him, pressing snugly against McCree’s back and wrapping his arms around his waist. “Best hang on,” he forced himself to say as he started the bike.

He could feel Shimada’s deep chuckle against his back. “I’ll hold on as tightly as you want,” he said with a chuckle and McCree couldn’t tell if that was a joke or something else.

So he revved the engine and rolled out of the garage.

* * *

The ride was almost unbearable. Shimada was warm against his back, pressing so nicely against him with his big arms wrapped around his waist. He directed McCree by gently tapping the arm on the side that they were to turn, and it was hard to keep to the speed limit, because McCree wanted nothing more to feel the subtle shift of Shimada’s body and muscles as he moved with the bike as if he was the one driving.

All too soon, the ride was over and McCree was pulling up in front of a very nondescript house in a nondescript neighborhood, the kind that he might expect an accountant to live in. He tried not to pay attention to the house number in a poor attempt at giving Shimada his privacy, and tried not to feel too upset when he felt Shimada dismount from the bike.

Shimada’s hair was pressed down by the helmet and his smile was almost shy, his cheeks pink as if windburned in a way that shouldn’t have been possible with his helmet on. Carefully, McCree dismounted and opened the compartment to let Shimada put his helmet away.

This time he was paying closer attention and saw Shimada’s computer bag appear, as if by magic, at his feet. He watched Shimada bend to pick it up, slinging it around his big shoulders.

Should he take off his helmet? Was that the polite thing to do? Did it seem too desperate?

But Shimada was looking at him with those dark eyes in the white-gold garage light in front of his house so he did, tucking it under his arm. “Well,” he said. “Home sweet home, I guess.”

Shimada simply watched him for a long moment. “Yes,” he said quietly, as he took a step closer to McCree.

In that moment, McCree wondered if Shimada was about to lean in and kiss him, and then wondered if that was just wishful thinking. He wondered if this was hero worship or if he really did like Shimada in every identity he had.

He liked to think so. Heroism aside, Blue Sentai was  _ funny _ , and unlike some of the others at the clinic, he was quick and meticulous about every time he had to change McCree back. Shimada was dry and witty and  _ goddamn _ McCree had always loved a man that looked like he could break him like a toothpick.

But dating a hero—or even knowing his secret identity—was dangerous business. Was Shimada worth the risk?

Yes, McCree decided. Even if nothing more happened, just knowing Shimada—and Blue—was worth whatever danger.

That didn’t mean that he didn’t hope with such great intensity that he was breathless with it. Shimada took another step closer, his dark eyes searching McCree’s. They were nearly chest-to-chest now, and McCree stood his ground, barely wanting to hope.

Someone cleared their throat and Shimada leaped back as if repelled. They both turned to look guiltily at the man standing in the open front door.

McCree couldn’t make out his face, but he could just about the frilly apron he wore that said “Kiss the Cook”. His arms were crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe, and his smirk was a pale slash across his face.

“I’m  _ right here _ , you know,” the man said with a wicked humor in his voice that matched his smirk. “You can at least wait until I wasn’t here to witness you cheating on your one true love.”

McCree’s stomach sank. He cleared his throat. “I’ll be off then,” he said, mounting his bike and starting it again. Carefully not looking at Shimada or his husband, McCree pulled on his helmet and began driving away.

* * *

McCree found two messages from Shimada when he got home.

_ I’m sorry. _

_ I still owe you dinner. _

He ignored them and tried not to think about how he nearly kissed (he hoped, at least at the time) a married man.

There was a break of two days with no messages. Then,  _ I hope you’re okay. Stay safe. Don’t get hit by anything, or try not to. You really are a magnet for trouble. _

That day he woke up to the message, sent at the ungodly hour of 3:47am, and realized just what Shimada was talking about when he turned on the news. It was one of the biggest scandals of the century, or so the shell shocked reporters claimed. McCree thought to himself that it was more likely to be the biggest scandal of the day, no more and no less, but that was just him.

Pictures of Moira, Akande, and Maximilien were splashed across the screen. There had been another enormous fight with the heroes that McCree had blessedly missed while nursing his hangover and now it was over.

Well, not over. According to a statement read by the vigilante called Shrike that was played back on the screen, the arrest of those involved did not and would not stop attacks on the city. Despite the machinations of those involved, the city’s history with villains was much longer, and would likely still continue forward. Shrike’s masked face, though it lacked any kind of human expression, seemed to stare deep into McCree’s soul.

The scandal was twofold: those arrested had ties to Talon, a villain organization whose intention the Shrike didn’t elaborate on. Those arrested also were citizens of the city engaged in public works that had been deliberately misreporting findings and reports to skim money to fund their “research” into a synthetic way to create more villains and more minions.

If McCree didn’t live in a world more befitting a comic book, he would have thought that it was ridiculous, would have thought that he was still dreaming.

But as he drove in, happening to run into the closures from the heroes’ fight, he was reminded that this was very real. There were swaths of burned ground and trees reduced to blackened toothpicks—if they were standing at all. Building facades were torn, glass shattered, and a huge trench was drawn in the ground, tearing up asphalt to reveal dark earth beneath. Some kind of pipe must have broken because he could still see enormous puddles preserved by the shade of the few trees that had remained unscathed, but most of it appeared to have dried.

Looking at the damage, McCree wondered how bad the fight had been and if anyone had been hurt. He realized then that he had never heard if any of the heroes had ever been seriously hurt during such fights. Could they even get hurt like mortal men? He supposed that they  _ had _ to, and yet…

Damage like that…you didn’t just walk away from.

Ahead, the light turned green and the traffic cop waved them on and he doggedly put worry for Shimada—for Blue Sentai—out of his mind.

* * *

Zarya was working at the upstairs Starbucks kiosk so McCree stood in line—even though he almost never drank Starbucks coffee. She greeted him warmly and asked him if he was getting an order for Hanzo, even though it was far too early for him to show up.

“Nah,” he said and didn’t elaborate. She likewise didn’t ask, completing his order—some kind of latte—quickly and shoving it, along with a breakfast sandwich he didn’t ask for, into his hands.

From the stubborn set of her jaw and the glittering look in her eye, he didn’t ask and stepped aside to let the next person order.

_ Don’t be an ass _ , a message on the pastry bag said.  _ Text him back _ .

McCree ate the sandwich and pretended that he hadn’t seen it, crumpling the bag and throwing it in the bin.

To his surprise, Sombra acted…surprisingly normal. Normal for her, at least, and whatever “normal” had been before this whole fiasco. She did ask him, when he walked into her office to deliver a report, if he had “fooled around with a real hero”. Her eyes narrowed when McCree coolly pointed out that Shimada was married and he wasn’t a homewrecker.

It seemed that Sombra didn’t have an answer to that and let him go without argument.

The week progressed similarly. He was always surprised to find Zarya or Mei at the Starbucks kiosks, and if he chose to visit them would receive some kind of note implying that  _ he _ was the asshole in the relationship.

Sombra would occasionally try to pry answers from him, but he shut her down every time.

After eight days, the longest he’d gone without visiting the hero clinic in the past month, he was shot by something at home. Fortunately, there had been no fighting in the area so it had just been a stray blast, but that still left him in a bind. This time he had been turned into a werewolf, something that he had relatively little experience with.

Sighing, he eyed his shredded clothes and awkwardly managed to make a makeshift sarong to cover his nudity—not that his thick fur would let anyone catch a glimpse of anything indecent—and opened the front door when he heard the sirens.

People were gathered on their porch to greet the heroes, wisely keeping their distance. McCree recognized Blue among them—hard not to, given his distinctive armor—but also Cyberian and Shrike. There was another hero that McCree didn’t recognize, but he rarely followed all of them too closely. 

It would have been funny to see Blue’s comical double-take if it didn’t hurt so much. Though he  _ did _ wonder how they all seemed to know exactly who he was, even if his face had pushed out into a muzzle and he was unrecognizable even to himself. 

“Oh no,” Cyberian said, not bothering to hide her amusement. 

“You really  _ are _ a magnet for trouble,” Blue Sentai said in a strange voice. “We weren’t even  _ near _ here.”

McCree could see his nosy neighbor Kathrynne’s eyes light up and sighed internally. She’d make his life a living hell later, constantly asking him how well he knew the heroes and if he could set her or her daughters (who were all “tragically unmarried”) up with them.

Worse, she might look too much into his interactions with Blue and ask if they were together.

“Animal transformations are more your forte than mine, Blue,” Cyberian said. Until he had met her up close like this, he had thought that she had been wearing a golden mask; now he realized that her skin was somehow gold. He might have thought that it was paint except that as she spoke, he realized that even the inside of her mouth was gold, even if it had a slightly rosier hue.

Though his face was fully covered, there was no mistaking the look that Blue gave her. But he turned to McCree. “Unfortunately, she is correct,” he said ruefully. “Are you comfortable out here? Or would you rather somewhere more private?”

He could hear Kathrynne’s audible gasp and sighed. Worse, he could imagine Shimada’s expression behind Blue’s featureless mask. His lips would be twitching in a suppressed smile, while also somehow looking tired and unamused.

Though…he glanced down at the makeshift sarong covering his nudity. Changing back here would give the entire fucking neighborhood an eyeful. He sighed. “Inside,” he said, somewhat surprised that he could still (somewhat) understand himself despite having a muzzle. Just in case Blue couldn’t, he jerked his thumb at the door. They both ignored Kathrynne’s squeal as they ducked inside and closed the door.

Blue politely didn’t look around and raised his hands, which were already glowing cyan. “You know the drill,” he said as if unable to keep from teasing.

McCree snorted and closed his eyes. A moment later, he could feel Blue put his hands against his ribs—which were shoulder-height to him—and felt the tingling…whatever-it-was turn him human again.

When he blinked the light from his eyes, he realized that his makeshift sarong, wrapped tightly around a much larger waist, had fallen and Blue seemed to find a corner of the ceiling very interesting.

Clearing his throat, McCree bent quickly and threw the sarong around himself again, doing his best impression of a human burrito in an effort to quickly hide himself. “Thanks.”

Blue seemed to glance at him out of the corner of an eye as if to check that he was decent before turning to look at him again. “Anytime,” he said. “If that is all…?”

Despite phrasing it as a question, he was already backing up toward the door.

Before he could stop himself—or consciously think about what he was asking—he said, “Who was that?”

Blue froze, his hand on the doorknob. He cleared his throat. “That was my brother,” he said. “In the door?” McCree nodded numbly. Blue cleared his throat again. “That was my brother,” he said again. “He thought that he was being funny, not only by using my house for his date night, but also by teasing you.”

With one last nod at McCree, who stood flabbergasted in his own entry, Blue opened the door and walked outside. Shaking his head, McCree closed the door and went to get dressed, unable to tell exactly how he felt about that.

* * *

He happened to see Mei in the cafeteria when he went to eat and after a moment of deliberation, sat at her table. She glanced away from her phone and gave him a dimpled smile.

“Jesse!” she said. “How are you?”

“I fucked up,” he said and her cheerful smile turned wicked in a way that reminded him too much of Sombra. “How can I fix it?”

Mei chuckled. “Have you tried talking to him? I found that talking always helps.”

A tray slapped the table next to McCree and he nearly fucking levitated. Zarya slid into the seat next to him and pinned him with a hard stare. “Hello,” she said, pleasantly enough though her hard eyes were at odds with her voice.

“I know,” McCree told her a little crossly. “I’m trying to fix it.”

“I told him to talk,” Mei told Zarya, who grunted.

“Talk is cheap,” she advised gruffly. “Your actions speak louder.”

Mei and Zarya exchanged glances and seemed to be having some kind of silent communication that McCree wasn’t privy to. Given how Shimada could make his stupid bag appear and disappear seemingly at will, he wouldn’t really be surprised if some heroes had other weird powers too.

“We don’t read minds,” Mei said without looking at him, just as he was wondering if one of them could.

“Whether you do or not,” McCree told her dryly, after he got over a brief spike of alarm. “You realize that—”

Zarya huffed a sound that was like a laugh. “It’s all over your face,” she said. “We do not read minds. We are just… _ very _ familiar with each other.”

McCree decided that it was best not to ask.

“Hanzo is coming in early today,” Mei said with a little giggle that sounded far too sinister for the sweet smile she gave him. “He has to file reports for the end of the quarter—that’s why you never see him in the clinic around this time.”

Now that Mei mentioned it…

“He’s supposed to show up about an hour before you typically leave,” Mei continued. “He really gets into it even before he shows up, so he sometimes forgets to grab dinner.”

Zarya grunted. “If he does, it’s something unhealthy or insufficient for his body.” Looking at Zarya’s imposing figure—even ignoring that she was a hero—McCree figured that if anybody knew, she would.

“He likes to eat early, before he gets too caught up in work,” Mei added. “So if you were to get something around the time you leave, then that would be ideal.”

McCree looked curiously at them. “How do you know this?” he wondered.

Both of them laughed. “When we’re on call, we dorm together,” Mei explained. “So you pick up on habits like this.”

“He likes pizza,” Zarya added, wrinkling her nose. “He orders a margherita without cheese and extra sauce because he is lactose intolerant.”

“Isn’t it just breadsticks and marinara at that point?” McCree wondered.

Mei giggled. “That’s what  _ we _ always say,” she told him. “But Hanzo also likes the garlic knots, if you think you can handle garlic breath.”

“He likes bread,” Zarya said a little sourly. “There is an Italian place around the corner that we sometimes order from.”

By the time that McCree went back to his desk after his lunch break, his head was swimming and he had a small list, written in Mei’s precise hand, of order suggestions.

* * *

The halls of the Accounting department were busy with people packing up and leaving. He got a few strange glances, clearly not being from that department and carrying food, but evidently no one cared enough to stop him.

Even though he had only been there a few times, McCree could still mentally trace his way back to Shimada’s little office, tucked away in a corner of the basement. The further he went, the emptier it got, for which McCree was grateful.

He managed to catch sight of Satya, seemingly just leaving Shimada’s office, and squirmed a little under her dark eyes. She looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on the bags in his hands. To his relief, her lips twitched in a slight smile, and she continued on her way.

Then he was at Shimada’s door, which was propped slightly open. Knowing that if he stopped, he would never move forward again, McCree gently nudged the door open with his hip, not even registering the fact that there were voices coming from the office.

“—just saying, Hanzo,” Oni was saying, stretched out over the only empty chair in the office with his legs kicked over the arm. From the haphazard piles of folders on the ground, he had moved them himself, rather than let Hanzo do it.

Most startling was the fact that Oni’s mask was off, resting on his chest as he folded his arms behind his head. He had a scarred face and dark hair that was streaked with silver and white. Despite the white in his hair, he looked surprisingly young—younger than McCree would expect from a vigilante like him.

“Work had always been your first love,” Oni continued, oblivious to the way that Shimada had frozen, his eyes wide as he stared at McCree in the doorway of his office. Though, to be fair, Oni’s eyes were closed as he tipped his head back. “And then that changed and it was  _ nice,  _ you know? But now you are being a bitch again.” He sniffed audibly. “Did someone order—?”

Oni opened grey eyes and stared right at McCree but didn’t seem as surprised as McCree though he probably should. McCree cleared his throat. “Hey.”

“Well,” Oni said without an ounce of shame. He slid his mask back in place and when he spoke next, it sounded tinnier with it in place. “I suppose I ought to take my leave now.”

“I told you that you should not have showed up in the first place,” Shimada said a little sourly. Laughing, Oni disappeared. When he was gone, Shimada let his head hang low, his glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose.

McCree cleared his throat. “I…didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” he said a little awkwardly. Shimada sighed when his stomach audibly grumbled. “I…got something for that?” He held up the bags of takeout like a peace offering between them.

To his relief, Shimada chuckled. “Close the door,” he said a little tiredly. “I suppose I can take a break.”

They both cleared off a space for McCree to put the bags down and he watched Shimada’s brows climb closer to his hairline with each takeout box he pulled out. “I…may have gotten too much,” he said sheepishly. “But I wasn’t sure what you like.”

With a little laugh, Shimada shook his head. “High metabolism,” he said. “This looks perfect. Did you get something for yourself?”

“The veal parmesan was recommended,” McCree said, wiggling the wrapped sandwich as he sat in the chair that Oni vacated. “So were the garlic knots.”

McCree had his doubts at the information he had been given, but sighed in audible relief when Shimada’s eyes lit up as he opened the first box. “How did you know that this is my favorite?”

“Ah,” he said. “I…may have gotten help from Mei and Zarya.”

Shimada blinked. “Really,” he said disbelievingly. “ _ Zarya _ suggested this?”

“She didn’t seem thrilled,” McCree admitted and Shimada laughed.

Clearly unsure what else to say, they both tucked into their meals. He was surprised at how much Shimada put away. All told, there had been four meals on the table and in the time it took McCree to finish his sandwich and pick at his garlic knots, Shimada had finished off two meals and was working on the third.

“Do you have a high caloric intake? Or just a high metabolism?”

For a moment, Shimada looked guilty. Then he chewed and swallowed. “Both,” he admitted. “Where do you think that the energy to change people comes from? Energy cannot be created or destroyed; the first law of thermodynamics.”

Unable to help himself, McCree laughed. “You’re such a nerd.”

Shimada laughed too, uncharacteristically shy, and McCree took it as a win. “Thank you for bringing this,” he said as he ate his last meal a little slower as if savoring it. “I had forgotten to eat before coming.”

“It’s…” McCree trailed off and fiddled with the napkin in his lap. “It’s the least I could do after making an ass of myself.”

This time the silence that stretched between them was distinctively more awkward. “I…should not have acted the way I did,” Shimada said at last. “It was highly inappropriate of me.”

McCree blinked at him. Had he been correct?  _ Had _ Shimada been about to kiss him?

He cleared his throat. “I mean…I had gotten scared off by—your brother, was it?” he rubbed the back of his neck, belatedly realizing that there was a smear of garlic butter on his hand, which meant that his hair would now smell like it. Too late. “I thought that he was your husband.”

Shimada paused mid-bite. He chewed, swallowed, and said, “ _ My husband? _ ”

“He was wearing a Kiss the Cook apron!”

Immediately, Shimada began to wheeze and choke, coughing. He took a deep drink from the bottle on his desk. When he stopped choking, he said, “I fucking  _ hate _ that apron.”

They both laughed to avoid talking about what they really should be saying. But that would only last for so long before silence fell again. Shimada resumed eating and McCree continued to pick at the napkin in his lap.

“Alright,” McCree blurted, clearly startling Shimada who jumped and looked at him almost guiltily. “Look, I…like you? And that night I had really been hopin’ that you were gonna kiss me. Because I really wanted that.” He cleared his throat. “The whole time we were driving I was trying to figure out if it was a hero thing or if it was just…” he gestured helplessly. “Look, I know I’m digging myself into a hole here, but I know I like you. You're silly and sassy and goddamn, you make my heart race.” 

Shimada watched him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looked away. “I should not… encourage this,” he said. “It is dangerous, my…  _ volunteer _ work. You could be hurt—you really are a magnet for trouble.”

“I mean, I think I walk into that clinic more often than anyone else in this fucking city,” McCree said dryly. “How much worse can it get?”

That didn’t seem to reassure Shimada. “And if the press finds out?”

“Like they know that Shimada—” shit, he forgot his first name. “—is you-know-who?” he asked, censoring himself at the last moment just in case anyone was listening. “His secret day job? It’s common knowledge, right?”

Shimada’s chin jutted out stubbornly. “I mean it,” he said. “You can still be hurt, especially if they find out.”

“And yet we’re still here,” McCree replied. “ _ And _ Som and I—like you said the other week—painted huge fucking targets on our backs just by doing our jobs. It’s not like it’s about to get any worse.”

“It could  _ always _ get worse,” Shimada said and oh, his eyes and hands glowing that familiar cyan should  _ not _ be as hot as McCree thought it was. “You could be  _ hurt _ , Jesse. And I’d know that it’s my fault.”

Slowly, McCree got to his feet—putting his garlic knots and the torn-up napkin aside—to slowly make his way around Shimada’s desk. “You said it before,” he said softly, stepping close. Gently, he tugged at Shimada’s arm and, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to budge it if Shimada didn’t allow him, it moved and Shimada allowed him to step even closer, slotting himself between Shimada and the desk.

It reminded McCree of those cheap pornos and he tried not to think too much about it.

Shimada had such a stricken look on his face despite the glowing eyes and McCree leaned close, gently brushing his lips against Hanzo’s. He tasted like garlic and marinara sauce, and McCree hummed; a part of him thought that both had never tasted so good as they did off of Shimada’s lips.

“Please,” he said, pulling away. The unearthly glow had faded in Shimada’s shock and now he stared at McCree, his eyes dark with something that made something curl low in McCree’s gut. “Don’t underestimate my ability to get into trouble all on my own.”

Humor warred with concern in Shimada’s eyes. “Am I trouble?” he asked, humor clearly winning.

McCree laughed, letting Shimada push him back on the desk. “Only if you want to be.” He reached behind himself to brace his weight and he and Shimada both flinched when something squished.

Clearing his throat, McCree sat up and looked behind him, finding that he had smashed one of the takeout boxes of garlic knots beneath the heel of his palm. “I suppose I ought to get out of your hair.”

Shimada made a face. “I do not want you to, but…” he glanced ruefully at the messy piles of folders all over his desk. “I do have a lot to do today.”

Just because he could now, McCree leaned in and stole a quick kiss, accidentally smearing his greasy hand over Shimada’s cheek. They both laughed and scrubbed away the butter and oil, unable to help their wide grins.

“I’ll text you later?” McCree asked tentatively, packing up his garlic knots and carrying out the empty boxes.

Shimada’s smile was light and relieved and, to McCree’s surprise, there was a faint hint of cyan in his eyes, as if whatever powers he had reacted to it. “I would like that.” Then he seemed to remember something and his smile turned sly. “I still owe you dinner.”

Resisting the urge to run back and kiss Shimada again, McCree opened the door to his office. “It’s a date.”

* * *

**(A very brief) EPILOGUE:**

It was nice to have a quiet moment to cook by himself. Even though he went through the motions every day, something about it was so different when he was cooking for someone else. 

Not to mention it was strange to be cooking only in a pair of stolen boxers that clung to his ass and the stupid apron that Shimada hated so much. 

At the same time, he would rather wear that stupid, frilly apron then have his chest and belly peppered with hot oil burns—even if Shimada would kiss them better when he finally woke up. 

Unable to help himself, McCree grinned to himself. It certainly stroked his ego that he was able to exhaust a hero like Shimada, and he tried not to be too smug about it. He had the feeling that Shimada would take it as a challenge—tomorrow, or even later that day,  _ McCree _ might be the one languishing in bed while Shimada smugly prepares a meal.

He paused, something making him aware that something was off. Turning, he looked around for any reason for him to feel uneasy. One moment, the kitchen was empty; the next, McCree found himself pressed against the cabinets, something sharp digging into his back. 

“Who are you?” a familiar, tinny voice hissed. “What are you doing here?  _ How did you get in here? _ Answer me!” 

“Will do gladly, once you stop asking me questions,” McCree replied. 

The pressure at his back was gone and McCree turned to find none other than Green Sentai standing there. Even with a mask obscuring his face, McCree could tell that he was surprised to find McCree there.

“For the record,” McCree said. “I’m here because I was invited, but I wasn’t aware that you were as well, or I’d have put on more clothes.”

He knew for a fact that Green wasn’t invited, but he didn’t say that.

Green toyed with his short sword and McCree knew that even though most might consider that an opening for attack, Green would still be faster. Not to mention that he had very little interest in trying to attack a veteran hero like Green.

“What are you doing here?” he asked shortly. “What have you done with Hanzo?”

McCree crossed his arms over his chest and tried not to feel too giddy at the pull and sting of scratches over his back. From the way Green’s head tilted, he was smiling stupidly but he couldn’t find it in him to be too bothered; he just hoped that Green wouldn’t decide to kill him.

“He’s fine, just sleeping,” McCree told Green, unsurprised that such information didn’t seem to reassure Green. “You can always check on him, if you like.”

Green was clearly close to Shimada—giving McCree more reason to think that the tabloids were right and they really were brothers—because he openly hesitated, looking toward the stairs to the second floor.

“If you hurt him…” Green threatened and in a flash of green, dashed away.

Shaking his head, McCree turned back to the stove and made a face when he realized that he had burned the pancakes. As he was dumping them into the trash, he heard shouting and Green appeared in the kitchen once more, as if by magic. His mask and helmet were off, tucked under an arm, and revealed a scarred face and garish green hair that stuck up in all directions. McCree wasn’t sure if his hair normally looked like some discount anime protagonist, or if it was because of the helmet.

More, McCree realized that he  _ recognized _ Green—he was none other than Oni, who he had seen, unmasked, in Shimada’s office the other day. He was deeply curious why Oni and Green were both the same person, but that wasn’t a question that he was about to ask at that moment. 

“I need a drink,” Green said flatly, his voice sounding different without his mask. “Find me a drink.”

Ignoring that he didn’t take orders from anyone—much less Green—McCree pretended to misunderstand him and got him a glass of warm water from the sink, earning himself a poisonous glare from the hero.

A moment later, Shimada walked down the stairs, a scowl on his face. A part of McCree had been incredibly disappointed to learn that Shimada healed disturbingly quickly. On one hand, it meant that he healed fast whenever he was hurt while out being a hero, but at the same time it frustrated McCree to no end that Shimada healed faster than he could leave a mark on his skin. 

As if sensing the tone of his thoughts, Shimada—well,  _ Hanzo _ —turned and gave McCree a wicked smirk. Unbidden, McCree’s eyes traveled over the skin of his neck and shoulders, which as of last night had been marked with bruises and bite marks but now was smooth and unmarked.

“I did not think that you eyeing each other could get any worse,” Green said flatly. “But it seems that I was wrong.”

Shimada chuckled and came to kiss McCree, his big arms looping around his hips; his hands gripped McCree’s ass and he grinned against Shimada’s mouth.

“Sorry,” McCree told Shimada as they parted. “If I’d’a known he was showing up, I would’a worn more clothes.”

Shimada chuckled. “I would rather you wear less,” he said as Green made exaggerated gagging noises. “But I suppose it would cause a stir.”

Reaching around, McCree patted Shimada’s hip and copped himself a feel. “Breakfast is almost ready. Why don’t you get your guest settled?”

Shimada gave him a sweet smile. “He was just leaving. Right, Genji?”

Green made a face. “See if I invite you over for dinner.”

“Our loss,” McCree said and turned to flip the pancakes on the stove. “Here.”

When he turned around again, ready to offer Green a plate of pancakes despite his joke, he found that he had gone. Hanzo looped his arms around his waist. “He left,” he murmured, his voice wonderfully low and rumbly against the skin of McCree’s back. 

McCree chuckled. “Ain’t that a shame. But that just means that there is more for us.”

“Eat up,” Hanzo murmured, his teeth finding one of the marks he’d left the night before. “You’ll need the energy; I’m not done with you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Love it? Hate it? I love hearing from you all. 
> 
> Feel free to come and yell at me on Twitter at [Dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus) as well.
> 
> ~DC


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